


An Ancient Place (the by his side remix)

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: Resolution19 [56]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Apocalypse, Asexual Relationship, M/M, Remix, and I don't remember my amazon password, because I don't have my book, hand holding, not a human AU, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: If there was one thing Aziraphale hadn't expected from a brisk fall day in 1967, it was meeting Anthony J. Crowley.The man reached out with his free hand. "I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley."Aziraphale smiled and shook Crowley's hand, the leather of his glove soft under Aziraphale's fingers. "Ezra Fell. I sometimes go by Zira," he added on impulse. He wasn't sure why it mattered to him that this human, who he had never met before and likely never would again, address him by even a portion of his true name, but he could not deny that itdidmatter.Crowley grinned at him, a wide smile of delight, and for a moment, Aziraphale was so distracted he couldn't have said if he was standing in a church or on the moon.Remix of "Full of History and Secrets"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Resolution19 [56]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1275806
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	An Ancient Place (the by his side remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Full of History and Secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232457) by [DoctorTrekLock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock). 



> Prompt: Full of History and Secrets ([x](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232457))  
> Source: December is a month of remixes and sequels  
> Title: "Night Vale is an ancient place. Full of history and secrets, as we were reminded today." _Welcome to Night Vale_ , Ep. 4
> 
> Originally posted December 32, 2019 on [Tumblr](https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/189998499822/an-ancient-place-the-by-his-side-remix) (shush, it's totally a real day)

If there was one thing Aziraphale hadn't expected from a brisk fall day in 1967, it was meeting Anthony J. Crowley.

He'd been doing his usual afternoon stroll through Soho, feeling somewhat more lonely than perhaps he customarily did, when he decided, on some whim that he would be forever grateful for, to pop into St. Patrick's for a brief visit.

Like all holy sites, he felt a pleasant warmth as soon as he set foot on the hallowed ground. Surveying the sanctuary with all the satisfaction of a job well done by someone else, he noticed a particularly striking man by the basin of holy water.

He was dressed in what Aziraphale had come to suppose must be the fashion of the day: an overly tight outfit in a somber black that looked out of place in the brightly lit church. With dark, round sunglasses and heeled boots to be precise. He found it a bit ridiculous, but was quietly aware that they must find him _equally_ ridiculous for his own, more _old-fashioned_ , apparel. Not that the thought made him anxious to match the current trend. Aziraphale had determined long ago that he would only bend to the latest fad if it was no longer the _latest_. It would hardly be worth updating his wardrobe for any style that lasted less than at least three decades.

Though most trends in human fashion were perplexing and often downright distasteful, Aziraphale couldn't help but note that this man seemed to wear the clothing with ease. The dark jacket flexed easily around his body as he carefully held a glass jar in the water to fill it. His black leather gloves were likewise somewhat jarring when compared to his otherwise brilliant surroundings, Aziraphale noticed. But, he admitted, to the contrary, they also seemed to fit him just as well as the rest of his ensemble, regardless of how out-of-place they seemed in context.

As he watched, the man pulled the bottle cautiously out of the water and held it nearly at arms' length, as if struggling to figure out what to do with it. Unbidden, Aziraphale felt a smile slip onto his face.

It quickly vanished, however, when the man seemed to discover an itch in the most inconvenient place, giving what could be overestimated as a full-body flinch. The general effect, however, was that the glass bottle slid against his leather gloves and began to fall.

Before he knew it, Aziraphale had reached out and caught the jar. He wasn't out of breath, which meant he must have employed a minor miracle to have made it so quickly. Hopefully Gabriel wouldn't audit his miracles any time this century. Either way, he didn't regret his slip in the slightest, as it made the man's face light up in the most relieved smile he'd seen in decades.

"Here you go," he told the man, surprised to find himself a little breathless after all. "Careful that you don't drop it again," he cautioned. "That glass would be quite a bother to clean up."

The man took the bottle back with a dazed nod, holding the bottle gingerly, close to his body this time. Good deed done, Aziraphale began to turn away, ignoring the hollow feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. There was no reason for it, after all. He'd only just met the man.

"Would you like to grab a drink?" the man blurted, and Aziraphale halted in surprise. "As thanks," he finished.

The hollow feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a warmth that Aziraphale couldn't quite attribute to the church, no matter how much he wanted to rationalize it away. "I would be delighted," he told the man.

The man adjusted his grip on the bottle, tucking it close to himself and reaching out with his free hand. "I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley."

Aziraphale smiled and shook Crowley's hand, the leather of his glove soft under Aziraphale's fingers. "Ezra Fell," he said, introducing himself by his current pseudonym. "I sometimes go by Zira," he added on impulse. He wasn't sure why it mattered to him that this human, who he had never met before and likely never would again, address him by even a portion of his true name, but he could not deny that it _did_ matter.

Crowley grinned at him, a wide smile of delight, and for a moment, Aziraphale was so distracted he couldn't have said if he was standing in a church or on the moon.

\--

Anthony Crowley turned out to be the most fascinating person Aziraphale had ever met, and he'd spent time with everyone from Virgil to Arthur Doyle. They seemed to click instantly, almost as if Crowley had been made as his mirror, a perfect foil. If Aziraphale hadn't known, deep in his corporation's bones, that his Creator had never been so generous and would never forgive him for his arrogance, Aziraphale might have wondered if Crowley had not been made just for him.

He could picture Crowley everywhere, at every point in his own history. Cutting a dashing figure through ancient Rome, rescuing him when he'd been discorporated in France during the Revolution, even standing next to him at Eden as he watched the first thunderstorm. Even now, looking back at his memories, Aziraphale could nearly taste the empty spaces around him where Crowley would have stood, slotted in so neatly it would be impossible to tell he hadn't been there the entire time, warping the emptiness around his own solitary figure into a pair of companions, two partners, a binary star system in perfect balance.

\--

"Packing is exhausting," Crowley proclaimed, flopping back onto Aziraphale's bed. Though, as of today, it was _their_ bed, really. Aziraphale felt a flutter of joy at the thought. He'd only known the man a month, but already he knew that he wanted to spend as much of Crowley's life with him as the human would allow.

"It was mostly unpacking today, my dear," Aziraphale told him in amusement. "The packing was yesterday." He flitted around the room, tucking away more pieces of his solitary life that he hadn't quite managed to get out of the way yet.

"I don't care," Crowley told him firmly. "Packing, unpacking, it's all the same to me. _Moving_ is exhausting, angel," he declared with a wide gesture in front of him. That he happened to be gesturing at the ceiling did not seem to put him out at all, Aziraphale noted with a burst of affection.

"Well, then," Aziraphale said lightly. "Maybe you should just never move again." He didn't pause, stuffing the detritus of the 1930s into the corner of another drawer. He also didn't look at Crowley.

"Maybe," Crowley echoed, and Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice.

He chanced a look over at the bed, and Crowley was watching him with something like wonder and something like love in his gaze. "Maybe," Aziraphale repeated more firmly.

"C'mere, angel," Crowley said softly, sitting up and holding out a hand. Aziraphale went to him effortlessly, allowing himself to be pulled down next to Crowley on top of the quilt. "Zira, I--"

"What is it, my dear?" Aziraphale prompted when Crowley faltered. He reached out and gently tucked a lock of Crowley's hair behind his ear.

"I--" And Aziraphale had only known Crowley a few short weeks - though it felt like a thousand years already - but he'd never seen the man so vulnerable. "Zira, I've been alone for a long time," he said quietly, closing his eyes for a moment, and Aziraphale's heart broke a little at seeing the tears well up around his eyelashes. "I never thought I'd meet anyone who would want to spend a month with me - me, as I truly am - much less a lifetime. And I just..." he fell silent, overcome with emotion.

"I know, my dear," Aziraphale whispered to him, cupping Crowley's cheek with his palm and pressing their foreheads together until their noses brushed and their breath mingled and Crowley's face was too close for Aziraphale to see the tears in his beautiful, golden eyes. "I know."

He held Crowley close until the man's breathing evened out and Crowley fell asleep. Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to move if God themself had appeared and ordered him to. Instead, he expended a few small miracles on switching off the lights and repositioning them under the blankets instead of on top of the covers.

Aziraphale carefully lifted one of Crowley's hands from the sheets, kissed it gently, and held it, all night long. He didn't sleep.

The cool October winds whistled at the windows that night, but inside an angel kept watch over his slumbering partner and vowed to never let the man be lonely again for all the days of his life.

\--

Sometimes Aziraphale wondered bleakly what he thought he was doing. Playing house with a human was never something that could be forgiven or overlooked by his superiors. It was only a matter of time before they found out. Even if his time with Crowley was long past by the time they discovered his _infraction_ , it wouldn't stop them from issuing punishment.

Even if he managed to slide under the radar for another century, it wouldn't matter in the long run. Crowley's soul was bound for Heaven; Aziraphale refused to contemplate otherwise. But angels and human souls were strictly separated. Even if he discovered Crowley's location and broke a thousand rules and laws, he still wouldn't be able to find his beloved.

Somehow, though, when he watched Crowley coax another stubborn bromeliad into blossoming, a small, genuine smile on his face, he had to admit that it was worth it. If he lost Crowley sooner than anticipated, if he was demoted, if he Fell, if he was plunged into a column of hellfire, if he searched fruitlessly for all eternity... It would all be worth it for every smile he could put on his dear Crowley's face.

\--

They had just gotten back from Warlock's birthday party when Aziraphale got the message from Gabriel. It was clunky and awkward, the way Aziraphale could only imagine his own would have been if Crowley hadn't patiently dragged him into the twenty-first century.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel demanded. "What is the meaning of this? Was it not the point of adapting Heaven's communication system so that you could be easily reached at all times? We should have kept scrolls. I _liked_ scrolls. Uriel liked scrolls too; I know they did. _Michael_ liked telephones, though, so we had to switch. Ugh." It was around that time that the answering machine had run out of space and cut him off.

Aziraphale frowned at the telephone, but was distracted by Crowley's announcement that he was going out on an errand.

"That sounds fine, my dear," Aziraphale told him. "I need to go 'round the corner as well. I've got a message from a rare bookseller I know and he wants to meet with me," he lied. It was his standard lie for the Heavenly business he was still called upon to complete. He would have worried about how often he needed to be gone, but Crowley traveled around the country as well on technological consultations, so they could align their absences to each other's.

Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how he felt about the fact that his bookshop, once a comfortable home for one, now felt empty without two. He settled on being very thankful for Crowley's entire existence.

Once Crowley was gone, Aziraphale locked up the bookshop and walked a few blocks over to his favorite sushi restaurant. Well, _third_ favorite sushi restaurant and his favorite to go to without Crowley. Crowley adored the conveyor belts in Aziraphale's first and second favorite restaurants, but Aziraphale preferred the _chirashi_ from the third. The other two never seemed to get it quite right.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel boomed. Also, Aziraphale's third favorite sushi restaurant was the only one Heaven knew about. Which was why it was so ideal for these sorts of meetings.

"Gabriel," he greeted, not quite meeting the same level of excitement as the other angel. "Why did you need to meet with me so urgently?"

And then Gabriel told him about the Apocalypse.

It was all he could do to nod in the correct places as Gabriel extolled the virtues of the coming End of Days. "Right, right," he agreed at the end. "And what's my role in all this?" He was desperately hoping his role was to tuck himself into a corner somewhere and come out when it was all over. At least that, he could do with Crowley.

"You are to take up arms alongside the rest of Heaven!" Gabriel told him cheerfully. "Come back with me and prepare for the Great War!"

 _No!_ Aziraphale's brain screamed at him. "I've got a couple things to take care of," he prevaricated. "Earth things, you know. Principality duties and the like. I'll pop up when I've got a minute," he promised.

Gabriel didn't seem to like that very much, but he did accept it, and a moment later, he vanished.

Aziraphale immediately collapsed back into his seat as if all his strings had been cut. "Oh my," he whispered to himself. "Oh my word."

Aziraphale had once been a Guardian of Eden, with the sword, rank, and title to go along with it. He had seen six millennia of human history unfold before him and had held his beloved in his arms for fifty years. He had anticipated watching human history for another six millennia and holding his beloved for as many years as he had left.

So now, to see the world dwindle, that future history cut short, was devastating. But not as devastating as realizing he wouldn't have the millennia after that he had planned on.

Human lifespan was limited by design. But just as Aziraphale had imagined Crowley beside him for the first six thousand years of his life, he had hoped to imagine him by his side for the next six thousand. That once he'd lost Crowley standing beside him, he would still have the painful, bittersweet memory of Crowley as his companion for the rest of time, lingering in the space around him, in the empty spot that Aziraphale knew he would now reflexively compensate for for the remainder of his existence.

Which now seemed lingeringly brief. His breath caught in his throat as he had sudden visions of Crowley cut down by flaming swords or beset by hellhounds. "No," he whispered, the word escaping before he could stop it. There were more casualties of war than the loss of his eternity, Aziraphale knew.

He threw a few bills on the table and rushed back to the bookshop, abruptly desperate to retreat behind her familiar walls. Maybe Crowley would be home soon, he thought longingly. Then he could hold his dearest partner tight and _pray_ and try not to become swamped by the despair he could already feel rising inside himself.

There was nothing he could do to stop the Apocalypse. It was _ineffable_ , after all.

\--

Every once in a while, when Crowley seemed surprised to find another birthday at hand, or when he cursed under his breath at the arthritis creeping through his joints, Aziraphale would excuse himself and sit in the corner of their bookshop, staring at his own hands until they stopped shaking and his vision had cleared again. Then he could wipe his face, breathe for a few minutes, and go find Crowley, a smile on his face.

His hands were never the aching, swollen mess that Crowley's became as they aged. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of his hands hurting too much to hold his books, so he had simply introduced weaknesses into the bones, sapped the strength from the muscles, allowed the skin to thin and age until it was almost like the vellum pages of his favorite tomes. He had hoped Crowley wouldn't think it an unusual sign of age.

Once, when they were younger men, when Aziraphale had found the first of Crowley's grey hairs, curled just above his ear, when Aziraphale's stomach had dropped for the first time at the inevitability of _time_ , of _aging_... Once, Aziraphale had sat next to Crowley on a park bench in St. James and remarked quietly on the shortness of the human lifespan and then, quieter, on how happy he was to have the opportunity to spend any of it with Crowley.

Once, Crowley had frozen, then abruptly curled closer into Aziraphale's side and had asked Aziraphale in a rough voice to emphatically "never bring it up again, please, angel." And Aziraphale had simply curved himself over his dear, dear friend and carded a hand gently through Crowley's still-mostly-dark hair and assured him gently that he never would. It had broken his heart enough to say it the first time.

\--

There was a _book_. Oh, thank his Creator, _there was a book_.

Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure where it had come from, given that he had an encyclopedic knowledge of his collection and _The Nife and Accurate Prophefies_ were decidedly not in it, but he had elected not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were. Maybe the appearance of the book was itself ineffable, he thought giddily. Maybe it was a _sign_.

Crowley had been wound tighter than a particularly high-pitched harp string the past few days, but Aziraphale couldn't blame him. He knew he had been fraught with tension himself ever since the conversation with Gabriel. Even the tender moment with Crowley that evening hadn't dissipated his lingering dread.

He had finally deciphered the identity of the Antichrist and the location of the Apocalypse's commencement, when Aziraphale's thrill of discovery trailed off into hesitant contemplation. What was he going to do with the information? If there was anyone else he could trust to definitively wish to halt the Apocalypse...

Crowley sprang to mind instantly, but Aziraphale discarded him just as quickly. Crowley was the love of his existence, a deeply sarcastic man with a heart of gold, but he was still only human. In a battle of angels and demons... Aziraphale had to keep him safe.

The next best option was Heaven itself. Surely the angels would want to stop the Apocalypse. Surely they would. And then Aziraphale and Crowley could have the remainder of their happily ever after. So he called them.

Unfortunately, it appeared Heaven itself did not have quite the same view on Heaven's role in halting the Apocalypse as Aziraphale did. He had only just managed to extract himself from his conversation with the Metatron when the Witchfinder Sargent himself burst into the bookshop. Aziraphale only had a fleeting moment to be thankful that Crowley was out before he vanished in a beam of white light.

\--

The next few hours were harrowing for Aziraphale. He had needed to get to Tadfield as quickly as possible, and so had ended up riding shotgun with Sargent Shadwell's - ahem - _lady of the night_. All the while, he had fretted to himself about whether Crowley was alright and how frantic he was going to be when he returned to the bookshop to find Aziraphale missing and he'd left a _chalk circle_ on the floor, oh dear, and was he going to call the police and file a missing persons report or was there a minimum amount of time Aziraphale had to be missing for that?

So he was understandably a little distracted from the actual Apocalypse itself. Once he was himself again, it took him a moment to realize the vision of Crowley running towards him was not actually a stress-induced hallucination. For one, Crowley's skin was pale under dark soot and when he hugged Aziraphale, he smelled of smoke. For another, even Aziraphale's imagination couldn't accurately conjure up the feel of Crowley's arms around him, no matter how many times he tried to memorize it.

Then he and his partner had to introduce themselves to the Antichrist. And what a bombshell was dropped. It did oddly remind Aziraphale of a bomb strike. Or perhaps one of those grenades he'd found himself on the wrong end of once or twice. The inciting event. A moment of ringing silence. And then an explosion.

Only this explosion didn't bring rubble or fragmented metal shards. It brought--

"Me, too," Crowley said, eyes wide in astonishment.

And that didn't make sense. "What?"

"I'm immortal too," Crowley said with hushed awe. "Neither of us is going to die."

Aziraphale's world ground to a halt. "What?"

"I get to _keep_ you," Crowley breathed, and Aziraphale could see something like wonder and something like love in his gaze, just the same after so many years together.

Then they were _rudely_ interrupted by the attempted continuation of the Apocalypse. After a spot of encouragement, Adam sent Gabriel and the accompanying demon away, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone once more.

"Let me introduce myself again, properly this time," Aziraphale said, excitement bubbling up. Crowley was _immortal_. He wouldn't have a shade of Crowley, he would have _Crowley_ by his side for the rest of eternity. All that was left was to discover the shape that eternity would take.

"My name is Aziraphale, a Principality of Heaven, formerly Guardian of the Eastern Gate," he told Crowley, holding out a hand. "I have been stationed on Earth since Eden, and I am desperately in love with you," he added, just in case it needed saying. And now, laid bare with words, he stripped off the layers of miracles that had been keeping him aging apace with his so-called _human_ partner.

Crowley reached out and took his hand. Aziraphale gripped as tightly as he dared. The arthritis was still running through Crowley's hands, but Aziraphale needed Crowley to understand one thing: he was not losing Crowley. Not now. No matter who Crowley was, angel or demon or other, Aziraphale was not losing him.

"Crowley, Serpent of Eden and the First Tempter," he said, losing layered illusions as well. Aziraphale could feel the fingers beneath his strengthening, straightening, and slimming, and he gripped all the tighter. "I was assigned to the temptation of Earth six thousand years ago." He cleared his throat. "I have been in love with you since you saved me from accidentally destroying myself with a jar of holy water."

All Aziraphale's half-recalled stories of the Serpent of Eden vanished abruptly. For a heart-stopping moment, all he felt was cold terror at the thought that Crowley might have died the day they met, that Aziraphale might have lost Crowley before he ever really got him.

If Crowley had needed circulation, Aziraphale might have been concerned by how tightly he was holding his partner's hand now. "Was that-- What were you doing with holy water, Crowley?"

Crowley looked surprised at his concern. It was the same look he got when Aziraphale reminded him point-blank to take his medications, like he was surprised that someone cared, and that more than anything told Aziraphale that Crowley-the-demon and Crowley-the-human were still the same fundamental _Crowley_.

Then Crowley told him about Ligur, which he seemed to think would be reassuring. Aziraphale was most definitely not reassured. Spine-chilling terror was _not_ , in fact, more fun to experience for the second time in ten minutes.

Fortunately for Crowley, Lucifer decided to show up shortly afterwards, saving him a long, twenty-seven point lecture on personal safety.

At long last, however, it was over. Finally. For good. The Antichrist and his friends went their way; the young couple went theirs; and Shadwell and Madame Tracy set off for London as well.

In the light of their escape from certain doom, Crowley seemed to have forgotten how he'd come to arrive at the air base. He stuttered to a halt outside the gates, and Aziraphale was going to ask him what was wrong until he caught sight of the same thing and stopped just as abruptly.

"Is that..." he trailed off, because he knew exactly what it was. "Oh, my dear," he murmured, putting a comforting hand on Crowley's shoulder. The demon swayed into the contact, so Aziraphale slid his hand around his back to his other shoulder, pulling him into a half-hug. "What happened to her?" He knew as well as anyone who had ever met Crowley, that the Bentley was his most treasured possession.

"I--" Crowley faltered. "I thought Hell might have gotten you. And then the M25 was on fire, and..." he trailed off. "This," he finished, gesturing half-heartedly toward the shell of his precious Bentley.

Aziraphale couldn't begin to touch on all the ways that made him feel. "I love you," he told Crowley firmly. "Wait here."

It didn't talk too terribly long to track down the Antichrist, even if he did have to invoke a minor miracle or two to catch the bicycles. After a rambling explanation and a tentative question, Adam looked surprised and fixed the Bentley with a thought. Apparently he'd thought he'd undone everything already, and the car must have slipped through the cracks.

Aziraphale thanked him politely and went to find his partner.

When he arrived back at the Bentley, it was to find Crowley already tucked inside the cabin, running his hands over the steering wheel and cooing at the dash. "All right?" he asked.

Crowley looked at him. "I love you," he said. "So very much, angel." And then he kissed his hand and his cheek and his forehead and drove them back to London, holding Aziraphale's hand the entire way and using miracles to compensate for being a hand down during shifting.

The drive itself was quiet, as if neither could bring themselves to give voice to the revelations surrounding their, well, _revelations_.

At last, Crowley broke the silence. "So many years, angel," he said quietly. "So many years we could have known each other."

"I like to think we made up for it," Aziraphale said lightly. "Quality, not quantity, my dear. I can't imagine we would have been as we are if we had met as ourselves."

Crowley hummed. "You may have a point there, Zira."

"Besides," Aziraphale continued, ignoring the fluttering in his belly at the nickname. _Zira_ was something of himself that only Crowley had. No one else called him Zira. He found he was quite content with that even now, when Crowley had the option of his full name. "It's hardly as if our paths never crossed. The Tower of Babel was yours, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Crowley admitted, glancing at Aziraphale before turning back to the miraculously reconstructed M25. "I was quite proud of that one, actually. Got me a commendation for original thinking."

"I can't say I enjoyed it as much," Aziraphale told him. "All those new languages meant more rules to learn. And the translations!" he exclaimed. "I had never imagined they could be so _terrible_."

Crowley snorted. "Should I be apologizing for doing my job?"

"Never," Aziraphale told him warmly. Then, "I pictured you there, you know," he said quietly, holding Crowley's hand tightly. "With me. Every lifetime, every city. You slotted into my memories as if you had always been there."

Crowley exhaled. "I never could," he confessed. "Not because you're so modern, angel," he teased, "but because I couldn't imagine you having lived and died so long ago."

Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just held Crowley's hand. "I'm here," he settled on. "Now and for always, my dear."

"I know," Crowley said, meeting his eyes again. They were full of warmth and love. "I'm so glad for it, you have no idea, Zira." Then he continued, lighter this time, with a familiar, curious smile. "I've been wondering. Did you ever met Virgil?"

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness, guys. I can't really believe it. After a full year, 56 fics, and over 80,000 words, my 2019 New Year's Resolution is complete. I mean, holy cow. When I started this last January 1st, I hadn't thought I would actually get this far. I thought I'd peter out sometime mid-February, the way all New Year's Resolutions do. But sitting on this side of 2019, I still can't quite understand how it was done.
> 
> I'd like to take this moment to thank the academy, by which I mean my family and friends, who have listened to me excitedly spout off plot points and complain about how terrible past-me had been to establish such deadlines and rules, lol. So, thanks.
> 
> On a separate, unrelated, but still relevant note, if anyone wants to know more about Aziraphale, Crowley, and the Tower of Babel, you can check out an earlier Resolution19, [Flax-Golden Tales to Spin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973284).
> 
> And hey, thanks for reading. <3


End file.
